


screwing up the plan

by widowcapsicle



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, F/M, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, One Shot, Porn With Plot, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Top Steve Rogers, natasha ruins steve's night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25461319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/widowcapsicle/pseuds/widowcapsicle
Summary: Steve goes home to relax, but Natasha ruins it.
Relationships: Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 1
Kudos: 116





	screwing up the plan

Steve had always enjoyed the motorcycle ride home. That was how it was every day, plaguing the streets of Manhattan like traffic laws didn't apply to him. Considering that he never wore a helmet—he probably believed they didn't _at all_. Captain America was never a stickler for rules anyway no matter how stoic of a soldier he was.

There was this inviting presence of his New York apartment. The bath he was going to draw himself, maybe have some Duke Ellington in the background as he submerged himself in the hottest water his faucet could provide given that the circumstances of this last mission called for it. It went awfully well compared to the things he was used to, but still, a couple of hits taken here and there that have now faded into superficial bruises were still _bruises_ and a good night of relaxing was essential. And then he'd order some takeout, probably Chinese, because he was the kind of man who didn't give up on anything and considering that Natasha's attempts at teaching him how to use chopsticks a week ago proved futile, he was going to order Chinese or sushi every day (and even use the sticks for the typical Caesar salad for all he cared), just so he could master it for the next time he saw her. And _then_ he's going to put on Star Trek because that was what Clint recommended, and he'd have a night on the couch, alone, but content as he always was.

Despite the continuous advertisement of depression being a perpetual consequence of waking up to a new century, Steve had found so many beautiful things to take its place. He missed the people he knew, Buck, Peggy, Howard. It hurt a lot. And he's only been out of the ice for a couple of months so it's not that he's way too deep into grieving already. But he found himself relishing everything in his life now. There were new people in it. Nat. Clint. That nurse across the hall. The Avengers. He's doing things that he would've done had the war finished and he had made it out alive. Yesterday, the upright piano he ordered showed up at the lobby and he carried the thing like it weighed five pounds. He wanted to learn an instrument because Erskine promised that he would have photographic memory after Project: Rebirth. And so far, it was true, but he knew that the only way to test that was to learn something new and challenging.

There's a garden in his balcony. One of the many things about being single and having some free time because he didn't have a nine-to-five job,was the benefit of doing anything. And he read about four massive books on Introduction to Gardening the other week and now he had a full-blown herb patch as much as his tiny balcony could support.

And then his walls were covered in canvases of art. He apologized to the landlord because he didn't know he wasn't supposed to poke the holes in the wall and basically just told him to keep the deposit and handed in twice the month's rent (because he was kind of rich with the way Captain America merchandise racked up the past century he was missed), and the man accepted, though he did say it wasn't necessary. Steve's surmised that it was probably because the guy was a fan. Having Steve Rogers rent out your property sounded like it's good for the business in and of itself already. So Steve kept nailing and pinning canvasses of portraits of Peggy and Howard and Bucky. And there were fairly new ones, too. There's one of the Avengers. One of Natasha and Clint. And then one of Natasha by herself because he thought she needed one alone to serve her justice. But he was disappointed that that painting didn't really capture what he saw in her, like she was an enigma for the paintbrush.

He also took up yoga after Natasha had claimed that he was extremely rigid and strait-laced. He wanted to prove her wrong.

And now he was thinking of getting a dog. Well, he was thinking of that god-amazing bath he was going to have succeeded by great Chinese food and (hopefully) a good time with Spock. But he was also thinking of getting a dog. Or a cat.

He parked his motorcycle and headed up the stairs three steps at a time, very contradictory to the aches he was feeling from the green splotches of contusions on many inches of him. Steve happily unlocked his door, way too jovial for anyone. Way too excited for a kid getting candy. And way too excited for a woman getting an engagement ring. But the impending bath was far too enticing for his dormant need for release.

Before he could open the door he heard something in his apartment that couldn't _possibly_ be right. There were moans, groans of sexual hums exiting his door, and he instinctively pressed his ear against it. He should've just opened it, inviting himself in his own damn house because there's an obvious trespasser. Singular, because there was only one distinct sound emitting from the place. Steve closed his eyes and pretended not to be aroused by someone who sounded a lot like Natasha.

He crept the door open, not trying to be silent but because the spy had taught him to be soundless whenever he did anything and because he was a quick learner. He pushed open the door and it settled back in the hinges like it never left them. He slowly walked over the kitchen, where the sounds grew louder—Natasha's noise searing his head with ill-advised imaginations. And when he turned the corner, he saw that there was absolutely nothing sexual at all. Natasha was moaning over a muffin. A fucking muffin. She had her eyes closed, her mouth on the stupid little thing, and her tongue sweeping over her bottom lip once she bit from it. The moan escaped her again.

She opened her eyes, unsurprised that the captain was staring at her incredulously. "Hi, soldier," she said in the seductive tone he knew she didn't mean to. But maybe she did except she did it all the time that even she probably couldn't distinguish what her real talk was compared to that anymore.

"Uh…" His eyes fixed on her, narrowing. "Hey, Nat. What're ya doin' here?" He took off his leather jacket, and he didn't miss the short spasm of her pupils trailing over the slight peek of his skin as his shirt rose up only a centimeter above his belt, enough to expose something there. " _How'd_ ya get here, actually?"

"That's an insulting question," she said with a smirk. "Given you're talking to me. A spy."

"'Kay, you're right. But I'd still like t' know how," he said, his voice thick with intonations of Brooklyn. He leaned over the counter as she continued to play with the muffin, the noises gone now because of the company.

"That's a secret," she said. "As for why I'm here…can't I just spend some time with a good ol' pal?"

He rolled his eyes, knowing that the subtle addition of "old" in that sentence was reserved only for him. He was a century old and she would never let him live that. She had given him a World War II veteran hat during an undercover recon once, and it's not like it was a wrong label, but the latent understanding of the nomenclature wasn't lost on him. "Ya could'a called," he said. "I had plans."

She pursed her lips, her brow simultaneously pointing up. "What plans could you possibly have?" It should be an insult, really. But he didn't think too much as he formulated an answer in his head.

_Drawing a bath with jazz music in the background. Eating Chinese food to practice chopsticking behind your back. And Stars Trek—or is it singular? Star Trek? Anyway—_

"Just…plans," he said. That was all. And that's not enough to convince anyone. Not even a five year-old. Let alone a fucking super-spy. _Good job, Steve._

Natasha hummed, taking the last bite of the pastry. "If you don't want me here just say so."

 _Please leave. I want a bath_. "No, no," he said with a half-smile. "Stay. Let me just shower first." _Ugh…that bath._

"Yeah, I'll just snoop around in your living room like I hadn't already done so before you got here and noticed that painting of me," she responded innocently.

"Yes, ya do that," he said, unfazed. "I'll go and shower and pretend ya didn't ruin my non-existent plans."

"Oh, so you admit it?"

"No…just that my plan was t' take a really long bath," he said sheepishly. He was too far in to lie at this point.

Her eyes seemed to twinkle at that. "Don't let me stop you. Stay in there as long as you like. Let your fingers turn to raisin the way they're meant to be with your age and all." Yeah, the twinkle was of mischief, the way her eyes always do when she had an extremely good joke she wanted to play.

"Ya think you're so funny."

"That's because I am," she said with a wink. And the wink shouldn't have brought him the memories of her moaning into a muffin, licking her lips of the crumbs that invaded them. It really shouldn't have. But it did.

And in a split second he was in the shower and the water had to be cold. Damn Natasha. For showing up and stealing his hot bath. And for showing up the way that she did for forcing his improvised hot shower, which wasn't that much of a step down from a bath. But now. _Now_ it was just a cold, stupid, horny shower.

He hadn't had sex in this century. And he'd really only had it once. With someone whose name he didn't remember because it was the first time he was given attention by a woman and he pounced at it. With respect of course. But he was also human. A human who had needs and spent all of his teen and adult life making love to his hand until Erskine blessed him. And then the girls from the tour selling war bonds were jumping at the sight of him and that was the reason he couldn't remember. Because there were so many of them. And he slept with one…but he definitely had choices. Despite so, all he knew was that his choice was a brunette. After that, soldiers threw tomatoes at him, Peggy told him he was destined for something more, then he jumped off a plane to save the Howling Commandos et al., not understanding what fondue really meant and decided that he wanted Peggy and needed to wait until he was sure that she and Howard hadn't been fonduing.

And if he thought about it, the tour for selling war bonds were only three years ago in his own concept of time. So even in the standards of his _true_ time, it's still been awhile since he'd had sex.

And he was not about to jack off in the shower with Natasha in the living room. He's more of a man than that. So, given the strength that he had because he's a super soldier, he washed himself as quickly as he could and stepped out of the murdering water, and dressed himself. He was still going on with the next two plans for the night.

Except, when he walked out, he saw Natasha lifting up two boxes. "Ordered two pizzas before you got here," she said. "Delivery guy just came." _Aw, hell_. That's not something he could eat chopsticks with even if he tried. And he didn't have control of the way his face dropped, seeing as Natasha's eyes grew wide just a little. "Did you not want pizza? I can get something else."

He let out a laugh to let her know she was being ridiculous and also to convince himself it was okay. Well, it was. There's nothing wrong with pizza. There's nothing wrong with Natasha being here either. "No, no, Nat," he said with a smile. "Pizza's fine. Don' get worry 'bout it."

"Okay," she said with her eyes narrowing. He knows that she'd good at reading people, and she definitely saw the way his face changed when he saw the pizza boxes, so now he just _knows_ there's this rollercoaster of questions going on in her head about whether she read him right or if he's hiding something or if his face was just the way it is. Either way, she decided to drop it but the skepticism in her face completely betrayed that.

Seeing what she was carrying in her other hand, he could say goodbye to Star Trek, too. "What's Twilight?" he asked.

And the smirk returned, completely disregarding her silent suspicions. "Oh, you're gonna hate it," she said as she set the pizza boxes on his unwarranted arms and dragged him into the living room.

"Why are we watchin' it then?" He set the boxes on his center table and stepped out to grab the napkins and paper plates that came with it.

"Because it's a must," she said, making herself comfortable on the couch despite never having been in his apartment before. "You can't call yourself a millennial if you've never seen it."

He walked back in, his brows furrowed in question. "But…I am a millennial."

She laughed. "Not in that way, old man. You may have literally lived through two millennia, but we're talking about the modern standards here." His confusion didn't leave him, but dropped it for the sake of remaining silent through the movie.

So…that bath could wait. And Chinese food. And Spock. Because the way Natasha's head fell on his shoulder a few minutes before the movie ended drove a great bargain. He smiled slightly, refraining from shuffling to prevent her from waking up. His eyes closed as the credits started rolling from a movie he didn't think was even that bad. Except he wasn't going to let her know that, foreseeing the insults and teasing it could bring for him.

When he woke deeper into the night, he expected the redhead to have left. But he felt movement on his lap, seeing as Natasha made territory on his quads, using him as a pillow despite him knowing his thighs were hard as rock. He really should wake her, tell her that she could use the guest room (or leave because his rising midsection would be better off if she wasn't in the vicinity), but he didn't. He just…stared, knocked for six. And that trance _completely_ fucked him over as he saw her shift and look up at him, his eyes caught and trapped in her sight like he wasn't at all embarrassed at getting caught watching her.

"Hi, soldier," she said, the same way she had greeted him when he entered the apartment to her moaning over a muffin. And the recent memory brandished his head, like the Pavlov experiment, because every time she said that now, he was going to think back to that exact damned moment.

He smiled, knowing his face was red, but didn't budge. "What're ya doin' here, Nat?" he asked sincerely.

She shrugged in his lap, the sudden movement hitting his erection and he tried to restrain himself from wincing. He didn't think she noticed that bulging mountain threatening to break apart his zipper, because she's yet to make a joke about it. "Trying to get you acclimated to the new century. What else?" She said that like it was supposed to be obvious. "Why'd you paint me, Steve?" she asked, completely disregarding his own inquiries. She did such a good job of diversion that despite Steve knowing her antics, he _had_ to move on and answer the question—because not doing so would make him guilty of whatever that painting was supposed to mean.

"I paint lots of my friends," he said, but her gaze didn't surrender to such an elementary answer.

"Yeah," she said with a smile. "But the only portraits are of me and your dead friends. And mom."

"Case in point," he dismissed.

And then her eyes grew dark like there was an inherent meaning to what he had just said. "Does that mean I'm special?" she asked. "Considering that you only have portraits of people you love?" Okay, well that was more like _making_ and fishing for an inherent meaning to something so superficial…like a stupid painting.

"Nat, we've been through so much in the past couple of months that I'm sure you know I love you," he said, his eyebrows piqued in question.

She propped herself up from his lap, an arm moving under her to set herself on her elbow. He didn't miss the way she brushed over his zipper. Nope. DIdn't miss _that_ at all. He couldn't even if he wanted to. "That's not what I mean," she said, her voice raspy and he didn't know if it was from waking up or something else entirely.

"W-what more can that mean?" He can't help but stutter, her hand setting on his thigh mere inches from where he wanted it on (or where he wanted it absolutely gone and miles away from).

Her fingers danced. _Danced_. Not tapped. Or moved. _Danced._ Like she was playing with him and he wasn't a complete idiot unaware of where her intentions lay. "You don't have a portrait of Clint," she whispered. "You love him the same as you love me, I'm sure."

He nodded. "That's right."

"But we both know why I'm up there, Steve." she said, her face inching closer to his and he couldn't pull back because his head was already pressed so hard against the wall behind it in an effort to make space—praying that he sunk in the asbestos and get stuck in it because the woman has now shifted, _sitting_ on his lap.

"We…we do?" he asked, his breathing too hard—too fast and erratic despite the excellent thermoregulation of his super-soldier serum.

And she didn't say anything more, nodding as she sensually made her way to his neck, kissing parts of it as hard as she could because hickeys didn't last on him, she knew.

Steve was a man of honor before anything else. If he was known for something, it would be the integrity of his dignity—the merit he puts in himself as a man. As a male person. Because he knew the stereotype, what Bruce had once told him was the disparate biological inclination for making something out of their respective sex's libido. And he also said that there wasn't a diverging number between man and woman when it came to who got aroused more— _but_ , the difference lies in the fact that women are more likely to be able to control it. They don't hide themselves in their room and masturbate as often. And he also knew the consequences of not _jerking off_ (as the modern colloquial man called it) because men just _have_ to do it to stay healthy. He knew that. He knew _all_ of that. And it might be his religion, or maybe he just has great respect instilled within himself for other people, whatever it might be didn't matter, because all he knew was that he was gently pushing Natasha out of his lap and setting her softly on the couch to sever the connection. The devil and angel on his shoulders fought—the red one calling him stupid and shouting in his ear about being an imbecile, the white one praising him.

"Natasha…" he started, looking into the woman's eyes. And they looked hurt. Pained, even. He didn't know if it was the rejection or of something else.

She closed her eyes as if to gather her thoughts, then her head went limp as she let it drop to the side, her cheek against the couch cushion as Steve lay with either hands on her side, propping himself atop her. Her eyes opened as she looked at the television and away from him. "Why does nobody want me?" she whispered. It didn't sound like a question for him to actually answer.

"Nat…what's goin' on?" he asked softly, desperate for an answer. The two months he'd known Natasha, she was the furthest from self-conscious of a person he'd ever met. Granted that the time he came from, everyone was a prude and no one woman would dare change in front of him like she's done a few times. She never cared about other people's opinions of her, and knew that even if they were terrible opinions, they were wrong anyway. Steve called her Aphrodite in his head. Because she was beautiful. Every inch of her. And he'd never seen her naked because he always closed his eyes every time she _did_ go _au naturale_ in front of him to change. But her face, flesh peeking through tank tops, seeing her in a bikini once for an undercover assignment—he needn't really use those as evidence to already know that she was a flawless specimen.

"No, it's…" She quickly got up off the couch from under him, hand swiping at her eye though Steve didn't realize that she might have teared. "I'm sorry, Steve." She couldn't look him in the eyes turning around to bolt out of the door with the athletic speed of her agile self.

Maybe it was the fact that he hand't had sex in so long and that he was ashamed his partner's been his own damn hand or maybe (probably, realistically) he wanted Natasha as much as she wanted him. He lunged forward to grab her swift wrist. "Nat…"

"Steve, don't," she said, and the tremble in her voice meant that she was close to crying. And he could let her go as the white angel on his shoulder yelled for him to do so in his ear.

Steve spun her, staring in tear-lidded eyes and shoving her to the nearest wall. She gasped at the impact, not out of pain but out of surprise. "I want you," he whispered huskily to her, a sense of dominance that he wasn't even sure he himself could procure. He was what she called a "small bean" and he wasn't too sure what it meant, but understood enough.

He noticed her neck, how a breath got caught right in her throat as he said that. "Fuck, Steve…" she said angrily and he was taken aback at the sudden disdain.

"What?" Steve said, separating them slightly.

"You're only saying that because—"

"No," he interrupted with a glare. "I don't just paint anyone, Natasha." She squinted at him. "I'm not an idiot." And with that she grabbed the back of his neck, pressing his head firm against hers for a searing kiss, a hungry one, sloppy but passionate. It was so different from anything he'd done before, it wasn't soft kisses and hums of gratitude, this was biting and scratching and anger, almost. He obliged with it all.

Natasha separated them only for a second, their breaths as hard as if they were on their morning runs. "I want you to fuck me hard, Steve." No one had ever asked him that before, and sure he'd never done it that way before, but God forgive him how his primal instinct was to lunge for her like he hadn't eaten in days. He aggressively grabbed her legs, wrapping them around him and carrying her with ease. Steve brought them into his bedroom, plopping her down on the bed with fire and shoving her shoulder down so she was vulnerably splayed on the memory foam.

He looked at her with absolute need _and_ want, not love, though he wasn't sure if Natasha had a different definition for each one. He quickly rid himself of his shirt and stopped Natasha's hands as she tried to unbuckle her pants. He gave her a scolding look, his own domination overcoming him, unaware that it existed inside him.

He quickly removed his sweats, left only with his boxers and climbed over Natasha to place a chaste kiss on her lips and a small bite of her neck before he ripped her camisole off. Steve aggressive grabbed her legs, pulling her closer to him on the edge of the bed and unbuckling her pants with haste and force. He removed her pants in the same fashion, leaving both of them bare down to their barely concealed forms.

"I meant what I said," Natasha said to him with rasp.

"I fucking heard you," he growled, catching her surprised as he devoured her lips and out his mouth came expletives that no other soul would hear ever. Natasha's hip subconsciously jutted up to meet his midsection, but he forcefully pinned her down, relinquishing the kiss to chastisingly stare at her. Steve kissed down her chest, squeeing her breast almost lifeless as Natasha gasped at the sensation. He figured he'd rid her of that garment while he was there, and for the first time, gazed at her with wonder, the way an artist did their muse. Impeccably perfect, he already knew, but the novelty would never wear off. He could stare at her, make a sculpture, draw the crevasses of her torso, and still never do the real thing justice. His eidetic memory ingrained this picture into his head, and he returned back to that wanton and carnal creature, devouring one of her nipples as he closed his eyes and let his mouth do the work.

The way Natasha moaned—if only that were something drawable. It echoed in his ears with the same feeling of tasting your new favorite candy for the first time. He sucked her almost to oblivion before biting and carrying on with all of the spaces of her still untouched, her body a map with landmarks of scars and valleys of muscles, that strength showing through her form's topography, making Steve's midsection itch. The look of her was blemished in so many ways, yet had the perfect splendor of regality. He was overwhelmed only with the thought that there couldn't possibly be enough people in this world that would be blessed by such beauty, for even if he tried to meet paintbrush on canvas, he would fail. Any artist would fail—because the most perfect way to experience Natasha was to taste her, to touch her and nothing else.

Steve stopped just below her navel, his mouth at a recess to focus attention on her. Steve looked up and saw her eyes, the dignity concealing the pleading that he knew was there. He didn't relieve her of the eye contact, removing her last barrier of clothing like it was routine, like he'd done this so many times before it became muscle memory. But that simply wasn't true, because while he'd had countless dreams exactly like this, it was stupefyingly different in real life. Feeling Natasha was like a crime, something no one should be able to do. She was too good, too irresistible, too consuming that she might kill you. That she was not a person to be attainable because no one could ever be worthy enough.

Steve's eyes were still on hers, his jaw clenching as he neared her sex. "Steve," she said.

He responded to it like it was a question. "Natasha."

But she didn't say anything after that, biting her lip as she anticipated his open mouth. Except it was closed, hovering just above where she wanted it. He built the suspense, waiting for her next turn. "Steve, fuck, just…fuck, Steve," she said, a palindrome, like her brain was jumbled but still tried to make sense of it all.

He couldn't relent anymore, not with his fully erect tent and the smell of arousal radiating off of her. Steve opened his mouth, tongue dancing slowly upward through her slit with a consequent hum of approval out of Natasha's mouth. He did it a few more times, achingly slow, achingly soft, until Natasha had had enough and grabbed the back of his head, pushing it tightly between her legs. "I said fuck me," she said with wrath and Steve felt himself no longer in control, though he smirked as he lapped his tongue.

Up, down. Up, down. Up—in, and Natasha gasped at the new feeling. Steve's head pulsed, tongue moving in and out of her with her hand still firmly pressed on the back of his head. Her free hand made its way to one of her breasts to help herself.

Steve's hands were on the bed on either side of her and he found himself kneeling to reprieve his aching muscles. He didn't dare touch her aside from his mouth, loving her desire for control even though she had none of it and her hand on his head was an act of misery, unleashed and unrestrained; not controlled. He looked up at her, tongue going inside then out, and the first releases of her dignified clutches came in the form of her hips. It was the second sign of desperation, Natasha's heels digging into his bed as she lifted her hips in the same rhythm his tongue moved, trying to find more contact that was unfortunately unachievable—his mouth was as deep as it was going to get into her.

And then he changed, tongue no longer in her slit, but now on her clit, his eyes still on her. And he sucked, Natasha's hip's suddenly striking forward with a bellowed moan. But it sounded more like a growl, like a famished animal eating, wanting more food, devouring it all too fast. And he let her, entertaining her false sense of control.

The woman underneath him let out a hitched gasp, broken breaths in between before she said "fuck" and came, hips frozen in the air as it tried to get the most out of experience, prolonging the euphoria as much as she could.

When she came down from it, Steve sent her a smile—or a smirk, her eyes were half-closed, too tired and too into her most recent orgasm to care about his smug face.

Steve stood, taking her legs and removing his boxers. "Fuck you hard, huh," he said with a slight scoff.

Natasha's eyes opened now as Steve grabbed ahold of himself, his tip softly tapping Natasha's entrance, but not doing enough. She gasped, and suddenly her hip was in the air again, asking for something more.

But before she could do that, he shoved two fingers into her without warning. "As you wish," he said with dark eyes, hand pumping in and out of Natasha slowly at first, then speeding up like a heated motor. Natasha came a second time, but not the last.

He watched as she came down from it again, maybe the greatest show of her beauty ever. The way she basked in the ecstasy and the calmness that came over her—that was the impossible picture, a portrait never to be ever replicated on paper, on canvas, on marble.

Steve entered her, this time with a little bit of warning but still not enough. And she may have overlooked his stamina, Steve going at a crazy fast pace that forced two consecutive orgasms out of her just when she thought she didn't have any left.

Steve let himself go inside of her, a short expletive leaving his mouth and the closing of his eyes as he released. And then collapsed on top of her, cock still deep inside of her.

Natasha hummed an appreciative sound, and they stayed that way with his face on the bed and hers facing the ceiling next to his, body splayed out in fatigue. Natasha played with his hair as she smiled.

Steve would let her know for the rest of his years that she was wanted. And he acknowledged this want, because even though he knew he would never ever capture her the way she really was, he painted her every day, using oil, acrylic, watercolor, gouache, pastel, fresco—trying to figure out which type would do her justice. He knew it would never be fruitful, that he was working towards failure, that he will succumb to the life of a tortured artist. But he did it every day, unable to stop, Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down and start over again. He would never ever succeed, but the want of Natasha drove him in this new world, pushed by the impossibility that everyone might see her as he did, that everyone experience her as he did. He knew this, that it was a failing practice, but he wanted Natasha, and not just her, but wanted everything that Natasha could offer the world.

So, yeah, she ruined his bath, and his Chinese food with chopsticks, and Start Trek—but it could all wait. Because he could freeze in an ice block again tomorrow and his only regret would be that Natasha was not seen by the rest of time and space as the greatest woman to ever exist on earth.


End file.
